How can you hurry a poem? You can’t.
The simmering stew on the fire satisfies sooner.
Lovers under the slow moon come faster.
The seed of a soul, nine months making, makes quicker.
Opening the door on a poem
begins with finding it first,
only to learn the key
has been lost ‘till it’s found
under a stone, in a wilderness
of stones hiding keys.
And the one that opens, opens a frontier
where nobody’s been, not even the maker.
And there is nothing, not word, not a bible of words,
not all the volumes of bibles and books on silent shelves,
that can tell this edge into another wilderness.
Only then can the maker begin
shaping nearly perfect images to vex
purely perfect grass.
Apologies to all who hoped to have seen something on writelee during the last few weeks. Our maker has been traveling and so did not do his diligence. Thank to all who make our blogging worth doing; our hope is that it is worthy.